The waiting room was stark and depressing… paint peeling under sharp fluorescents. The pungency of disinfectant failed to disguise the distinct aroma of urine. Every now and then some waiting client fell into a fit of dispirited coughing. Nobody talked.

Derek hunched in a cracked corner seat, hoping to avoid being noticed. Not that many recognized Derek Blakeney anymore. It had been more than two years since the last spate of scandals and scathing reviews had banished him from the theater columns.

The only serious threat to his apathetic downward spiral had come when a certain critic compassionately eulogized “a lost giant of the stage.” Derek had tried to build up a rage over it, but torpidity had prevailed in the end. Now he was thirty pounds lighter and indifferently washed, and it was unlikely anyone would even recognize a onetime star of Broadway. He was probably safe.

A gaunt woman in a white smock periodically emerged to call out numbers. Clients followed her one at a time to a row of cubbyholes against the wall. From the booths came a low mutter of alternating wheedling and officialese. Derek overheard snatches of conversation.

“…You won’t get any more Tripastim until your amino acid balance is better, Mr. Saunders… How? By improving your diet of course…”

And another.

“…Here is your allotment, Mrs. Fine. No, first you sign here. Yes, here. And you must drink this vitamin supplement… I’ve already explained, Mrs. Fine. The government doesn’t subsidize your habit because it’s your right, but in order to drive the Black Chemists out of business. We can undercharge them and see to it you have every chance to kick it if you decide to. Part of the deal is making sure you get the nutritional…”